Apologies to romance and the English language
by AFishNamedSushi
Summary: Darcy knew it was probably a bad idea but she just couldn't help herself. She just wanted to touch him, just a little. Explicit - Very MA, warnings inside


I'm having one of _those _days, and if I had my own Loki to be a creeper on and fuck senseless, I'd feel better.

Warnings for creeper!Darcy, sleeping Loki, fondling, choking, fingering, rough sex, yada yada yada. Please let me know if you like it, since I don't usually write smut. This is not part of the FML universe.

* * *

Darcy knew it was probably a bad idea but she just couldn't help herself.

Loki was dozing on the bed, his long legs stretched out among the deep emerald covers and golden trimmings, an airy melody of floating trumpets and horns wafting from behind the heavy brass door as she gently closed it behind her. Asgardian holiday feasts were a sight to behold, an overwhelming combination of food and wine, laughter and dancing, glittering princesses and elves and all sorts of other races that Darcy didn't even want to guess at. There was endless abundance of battle stories and tales of epic romance to bend the ear, and had she stayed to listen she may have found that they all mingled into one glorious ballad that spoke the virtues of love and honor. If Darcy had paid attention she may have found that the company was to die for, the rarest of opportunities not just for a mortal but for a young woman to interact with the greatest warriors and ladies of court that probably ever existed. As it was though, stuck between Jane and Lady Sif listening to yet another tale of how Thor and The Warrior's Three found themselves faced with innumerable odds and somehow managed to emerge victorious, Darcy became distracted by the presence of a certain tall, pale and brooding Prince of Asgard.

Or rather his lack of presence.

She managed to contain her curiosity for a full thirty minutes, sandwiched at a table among guests of honor as she was, before she began to become itchy with the memories of her other nights on Asgard - nights that started out very much like this one and somehow ended with her and Loki in an tangle of limbs, wrapped in the deceptively smooth sheets of his bed and left her breathing with the heavy labor of a runner after a marathon. Those nights were really only three, distinctly different occasions with circumstances leading up to them that were markedly different from the one she then found herself. She wasn't drunk this time, for example, and he hadn't been avoiding everyone like the plague.

Darcy careful closed the door and let the latch fall into place before turning to look at Loki. His head was lolling against a large pillow, exposing the long white of his neck with his face angled slightly in her direction. In this attitude of repose his face seemed strangely composed, almost gentle. The harsh lines of scowl and scornful laughter that were near permanent fixtures on his handsome face were temporarily invisible, his mouth soft and slack, and a long lock of dark hair tumbled down over his forehead. He'd showered, washed all the usual product of whatever he used to make his hair slick back, and without it his hair unexpectedly curled, twirling up around his ears and making his already young appearance appear even more youthful.

It made her breath catch.

She wanted to curl her fingers in that hair, to press soft kisses over each of his eyelids, to stroke his cheeks with her thumbs and rub her nose against his in gentle innocence, so lovely and indulgent and so very out of character for the both of them, but oh how she wanted it. She should have been happy with the memories she had of touching him, hazy and rough and impersonal as they were, but she couldn't be satisfied with that, oh no, not Darcy.

No, where her eyes were then drawn pushed her heart into her throat, made her fingers itch and her tongue dart out to flick against her lips, was where the creases of the dark sheets stretched over his abdomen, pale shirtless muscles relaxed yet defined under unblemished alabaster skin. One of his legs was bent up a little higher than the other, a shining ankle peeking out from underneath the covers. It pulled the sheets taut over his crotch, and hinted at what she knew lay beneath.

For a full five minutes she stood there, squirming and wringing her hands. He won't even know, she thought to herself, desperately wanting to do just this one thing despite the little warnings shooting like fire in the back of her mind. She just wanted to touch him, just a little. So strange and powerful and wonderfully alien, the perfect fairy tale monster who looks like a human being and talks like one but is so much more. Who sneers and laughs at everything she says and raises his eyebrows at her insults and is contemptuous of everyone he meets.

Whose hands had fisted in surprise at the back of her head when she took him in her mouth, whose eyes screwed shut and mouth hung open in a breathless curse when she lowered herself onto him.

The thought had her moving to cross the room before she knew it, padding silently across the floor. Thank god for frilly Asgard ensembles with silken slippers much more suited to the task of sneaking up on a sleeping god than her usual Converse. She didn't dare try to get into the bed with him, afraid that her weight would wake him from what must surely be a deep sleep if her presence hadn't already done so. Instead she hovered near the edge, holding her breath, every movement slow and careful.

This close she could smell him, a mixture of aromatic and foreign elements that might be his soap along with a sweet and clean scent that may be the linens she knew were always fresh but also might just be him. She sighed, feeling a slight rush go to her head; a silly sort of giddiness at her daring, at the sheer stupidity of what she knew she was doing. Mice don't pet cats, especially sleeping ones. Looking down at him she could see the dip where the sheet met his abdomen, a shadow falling across those curving indents where hips guide lower, the precipice so cruelly obscured from view.

She tilted her head to the side, hair falling forward from behind her shoulders and brushing against her glasses, and examined that secret dip, the dark shadow where the sheets gaped a little. She could just make out a small section of his pelvis. She swallowed, her throat dry. There was a tingling sensation starting to pool between her legs. She could try to touch it, if she was very, very careful. She could lift the sheet with one hand and slip the other under very carefully, she could pull it out and...

It was just her kind of fucked up luck that she hadn't even gotten that good of a look at it the last time she'd seen it, as fast as it was over. She could do it, she could. Darcy swallowed. Fuck, she would do it.

Her heart was pounding when she lifted her hand and lowered it slowly and carefully towards the sheet covering his lap, breathing carefully through her mouth because she was becoming breathless, giddy with nerves and excitement and anticipation and the knowledge of just how dangerous this was. Touching him, daring to put her hands on someone so resistant to contact, feeling him because she could...Darcy's other hand drifted down between her legs, pressing against her mound in teasing pressure. She could feel herself growing wetter and she imagined it was his hand pressing against her, strong and sure and confident. He could be masterful, she knew, he had to be. Centuries of experience, tons of emotional damage, dark and sarcastic and mean. He could play her like an instrument, knowing just when she needed it hard and rough or soft and gentle and she knew that he would do it the exact opposite so that she was left begging, pleading in a mixture of pain and frustration and ecstasy, while he teased her and laughed all the while.

Her fingers brushed against the sheets and her groin clenched. She could feel it, soft right now of course, but long anyway. She breathed out slowly through her mouth as she ran a finger up its length; it was folded upwards to lie against his hip. She remembered that when it was hard she thought that she couldn't wish for anything bigger. It had felt perfect, filling her up just right. Just the way she needed. Just the way she wanted. Her finger traveled up its head and she swore she felt it twitch.

Could she...? Oh yes, definitely she could. She would.

Still not daring to believe her boldness and moving quickly before she could lose courage, Darcy slipped careful fingers under the sheet, trying oh so hard not to move too suddenly, to drag or pull. It seemed she moved in molasses, the millimeters of actual space taking the span of a desert as she moved, her heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears. Then finally her fingers grazed it and she let out an involuntary sigh.

The skin was satiny smooth and soft and she closed her eyes thinking of how it looked the last time, all bare and hard and ready for her. She closed her eyes, committing the feel of it to memory and using the hazy remembrances of past occasions to fill in the blanks, a playback loop of pleasure and the best sex of her life. She stroked her fingers down then up again, pressing gently when she reached the head. It twitched, and she held her breath as she let her fingers glide upwards along the smoothness. It was hardening. Yes, hardening and thickening, and god she wanted to do more than touch it. She wanted to taste it, wanted to feel it harden between her lips and use her tongue to make him writhe, to use her mortal mouth to bring the god to his knees.

Darcy let out a strangled yelp when the sudden hand on her wrist yanked her forward, then she was slapped, no not slapped, but something cold and unyielding was holding her jaw, pulling her forwards so hard and fast it made her head spin. She was wrenched sideway and flipped, and suddenly she was in the bed, staring up at Loki who was towering over her, one hand raised as if to strike and the other still wrapped around her jaw. He was breathing heavily, heavier than she'd ever seen before, his eyes wild and angry, and Darcy grew very, very scared at the sight. She willed herself to stay still, unmoving and unbreathing as Loki's eyes swept the room, swept over her, then swept down over himself.

And then he smirked.

"Oh Darcy," he sneered. "Whatever are you doing?"

Darcy swallowed roughly. "Thowwy," she said desperately, her mouth barely able to form the word from where his hand gripped her jaw.

Loki smiled and ignored her, moving his hand from where it was cupping her jaw to slowly slide down and settle around her throat. She gasped when his cold hand flexed over her windpipe, feeling the ultimate power he had to crush if he wanted to.

"Touching that which does not belong to you? You silly, stupid mortal girl."

She could feel what might be the beginnings of tears start to form in her eyes, a mixture of fear and disappointment, whether at her predicament or at not getting as far as she wanted, she wasn't sure. Loki's breathing had slowed and, his hand still around her throat, he began a slow roaming perusal of Darcy's form, taking in her disheveled dress, one strap fallen off a shoulder and the skirts bunched up around her knees, one silken slipper lost to god knows where in the covers and her glasses crooked on her face. He paused when he got to her legs, eyeing the hidden place covered by the dress.

He abruptly moved his free hand and wrenched her dress up, moving the folds of silken fabric and gathering them in a tight fist. He pushed her knees apart, exposing her to the air of the room and sending a cold wave through her as she felt the coolness on her wet panties. She gasped and his gaze was immediately drawn downward, and she shivered with a flood of thrill and humiliation.

His other hand still wrapped around her neck, though not as tightly, Loki ran a single long finger along her cleft and she shuddered, feeling the pressure of his cold finger through the barrier of cloth. She gasped again as he pressed harder, dragging downward in a cruel approximation of the path her fingers had taken on him. At least she had touched him skin-to-skin; this was torture, and if her punishment should fit the crime she would gladly take it if only he would touch her. She ground her hips forward, chasing the light teasing touch of his finger, and was unable to help the little whimper when he pressed forward, rubbing against her covered entrance, before withdrawing his hand entirely.

He shook his head and tsk'd, "You're a slave, aren't you? Ruled by your most basic desires, judgment and logic clouded by simple animal want?"

She wanted to protest, she really did. His words were cruel and condescending and filled with the remembrance that he still felt, after all this time, that she was beneath him, that humans were lesser beings who couldn't control their desires, who needed guidance and rule. She wanted to shout "No!", and at the same time hide in shame because she knew she was getting wetter, his mocking eyes and twisted smile lighting a fire of arousal in her body, stoking a flame made of the same stuff she felt when he laughed at her, when he gazed at her with such intense feeling, even if it was contempt.

Darcy realized that he was standing in the same spot she had been near the bed, leaning forward over her, his hands on her knee and on her throat, his eyes lit with a strange glow as he looked at the place between her legs. She saw that he was naked, his pale body lithe and tall and sculpted, his cock hard and pointing upward. Her foot that was closest to him moved slowly, almost of its own daring volition, and she let it slide off the end and brush against his hip and crotch. Her pussy clenched when she felt it, cold and hard, and she felt a wave of triumph.

Apparently she wasn't the only one ruled by base desire.

Loki's reaction was instantaneous. He made a snarling sound and his hand tightened around her throat, his other hand grabbing her soaked panties and tearing them with sharp fingers. She made a choking sound when he squeezed his hand around her throat and met his eyes, bristling with anger at her confidence . She let him see her fear, but also her daring, as she let her legs fall wider apart and brought her hands slowly to the skirts gathered at her waist, lifting them up higher and exposing herself more fully to him.

Then he was there, cold fingers against her opening, hard and long, not like his cock but perfect in their own way. He pushed two of them inside her and she moaned, her eyes shutting and he head falling back as his hand still held tight to her throat. He nudged his fingers in and out softly, and when she looked back at him she saw his smirk grow wider and then he pushed forward suddenly and she cried out.

His grip on her throat was gone, his hand shifting to drag the other shoulder of her dress down so that the top was pooled over the tops of her breasts. He grabbed and pinched at her through the clothing, rubbing and kneeding her breast with one hand while the other was still working slowly between her legs. She gasped and moaned when he sharply twisted her nipple at the same time he curled his fingers, feeling a soft ghost of breath as his chuckle washed over her. Her head tipped back again, hair fanning out onto the pillows, as she arched her back and spread her legs wider, begging for his fingers to go deeper, go harder, to fill her up the way she wanted his cock to fill her.

He moved slowly at first, eyeing her reactions with a vicious smile and savage delight as every twist, every slide of his fingers in and out of her and on her breasts made her writhe, made her whimper and beg, her body's desire betraying her resolve and proving just how much a slave she really was. But he was a slave too, she thought, and she brought her fingers slowly up her torso from where they were fisted in the emerald sheets to trail along her collar, purposefully brushing her fingers against his arm and making him grab her breast harder before sucking two of her fingers into her mouth. Her eyes closed she pictured his hand, fingers sliding into her, his white hand fisted and tight, the veins of his wrist cording and strong as he pushed deeper. She felt herself clench and heard his breath hitch, and when she opened her eyes she saw him looking down at her, his expression hungry and sharp. He pressed harder and she sucked on her fingers, hollowing her cheeks and staring right into his bright eyes when he did it again, and again.

She didn't even realize it when she began to thrust back against his hand as he fucked her with his fingers, his eyes wide and round as he watched her get into it, riding his hand and sucking on her fingers like it was his cock in her pussy or her mouth. Small little moans began rising from her throat, growing louder and louder the harder he went. She didn't notice when his hand left her breast; her clit ached to be touched, swollen and begging for his fingers or his tongue, she didn't care. She could do it, she could get that little bit of pressure that was keeping her on the edge and she could fall over, riding Loki's fingers and the feel of his eyes feasting on her as she fell. Instead, she took her fingers out of her mouth and trailed them slowly down her neck, shivering as the cold air met the trail of wetness in their wake. Lifting her hands to her breasts she resumed where he had left off, pinching and rubbing her nipples through the dress fabric, feeling jolts of pleasure course through her and making her clench again around Loki's fingers as she looked to him.

He was breathing hard, a slight flush marking his pale cheeks, his teeth sharp and bared as he gazed intently at her face. She felt herself devoured by it, the intensity of his expression, the severity of his regard for her every reaction, his judgment of her every movement, each breath, each sound he wrought from her as he played her. Every so often he dropped his eyes to her pussy, watching himself fuck her with his fingers, and she heard a low growl grow in his throat.

With the hand that was previously on her breast he moved down the bed. A moment later his cock was in his hand, hard and straining and he was jerking on it furiously. The sight nearly set her over the edge, her moans pitched higher and more desperate as she watched him tug and pull on himself with one hand while the other twisted inside her. She was teetering, on the precipice between giving in or holding back, between ending this contest too soon and yet not soon enough. He would let her do it, he would let her come and it would be amazing and she would float and then he would sneer and laugh and tell her she was weak, that she was simple and base. And he would be right.

It was decided for her in the next second when, not removing his own hand from his cock, Loki brought the thumb of the hand that was fingering her up and rubbed it against her clit. It was over. She swore and screamed, falling over the edge as waves of pleasure crashed over her, her muscles contracting hard on his fingers and she heard him growl again and suddenly his hand was gone and she was moving sideways as he dragged her legs toward the edge of the bed and before she'd even finished he'd replaced his fingers with his cock. She shuddered again, his cock hard and cold and filling her so completely like she remembered, delighting and reveling in this admission of his own weakness and the feel of his slim hips between her thighs.

Loki was vicious as he pounded into her roughly, grunting and growling and more vocal than she could remember him being before. She clung to his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist, staring up at his face and his eyes, frightening and scary with their intensity that said she should look away but she found that she couldn't.

Then he was shoving his fingers into her mouth, the same fingers he had used on her, and Darcy didn't hesitate, sucking on them and tasting herself and imagining that he could feel her tongue wrapped around his fingers like it was the cock pounding away inside her, like he could feel it the same way she wished it was his cock, filling her and claiming her in more way than one.

His other hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise and he pressed his nose against her cheek, his teeth sharp and grazing against her jaw. He sped up his pace and his fingers pushed deeper into her mouth, over her tongue and into her throat, and she almost gagged because it was rough and sudden but it was gorgeous and fantastic and she wanted it to never, ever stop. He was so hard and terribly strong, and she knew he could snap her into a million pieces if he wanted to, that he had power beyond her imagination and was feared even by his own family, even by Thor, because he was rash and arrogant and unpredictable. And he held her life in her hands just as she held his cock in her pussy and his fingers in her mouth, her eyes wide and taking him in gladly despite her fear.

He bit her throat, growling again and then pulled his fingers from her mouth, gripping her jaw and twisting her face to kiss her brutally. She tried to kiss him back, and he forced his tongue into her mouth and she let him work her how he wanted, hot and wet and sliding as he thrust into her harder and faster, building speed and making a knot in her belly grow tighter and tighter.

He slipped his hand under her hip and grabbed her ass, lifting her up and off the edge of the bed as he pulled her hips against his. The change in angle made her cry out and she bit down on her lip when his pelvis hit her just right and she was coming again, her eyes squeezing shut and tasting the tangy iron of her own blood in her mouth. He pushed himself deeper, hands clenching hard as he jerked and came, spending himself inside her.

He bent forward and slumped over her after he finished, laying his sweaty forehead against her shoulder and breathing rapidly. Darcy lay there under him, catching her own breath as she loosened her hands from their fisted hold in the bed sheets. Almost of their own will her hands drifted up to his shoulders, one hand sweeping over the sweaty locks on his forehead and up through his hair.

Abruptly he pulled out of her and stood, blinking rapidly and seeming surprised as he ran his own hand through his hair, leaving Darcy lying on the edge of the bed, her lower half bare and legs hanging off the side, dazed and delirious with her hair frazzled and glasses skewed.

Loki wouldn't look at her as he moved to the washbasin on the opposite side of the room, tall and lithe and strangely vulnerable as he hunched his shoulders and cleaned himself with his back turned to her. Darcy felt limp, spent and weak, and gingerly she closed her legs and sighed against the ache in her hips and thighs. Her high was fading fast and she spared Loki's turned back a glance before she began searching through the tangled sheets for her missing slipper.

She was standing up, trying her best to right her appearance when Loki's voice confirmed exactly what she was already thinking.

"You should go," he muttered, back still turned to her as he ran water over his hands. "Your friends will wonder where you've gone."

Darcy nodded even though he couldn't see it and she carefully opened the door, hearing the sounds of the party as it continued blissfully unawares of what had just transpired.

She stood still in the doorway, eyeing Loki's tall frame, his lithe muscles offset by shadows in the dim light that somehow made him seem thinner, more fragile. Darcy's fingers wrapped around the edge of the frame, indecision making her hesitate in the wake of his soft words. There was no mocking, no sharp words and evil smile. She was expecting that.

This...

Darcy squashed the sudden impulse she had to go to him, to wrap her arms around his waist and bury her head between his shoulder blades, to take his hand and hold it no matter what he said, no matter his protests and cruel words, the thought of which suddenly now felt less severe, less cutting than before.

Instead she silently padded out the door and, taking a deep breath, headed back to the hall to rejoin the feast.


End file.
